Clean Caucasian Hands Type, Type, Type

I don’t have the powder
To blow the lid off
And scalp like Indians
Search through the pink pudding
For one of the keys
Tempting, mouth watering

I don’t have the power
I once had
The army of cotton pickers
And backs carved
Like a cutting board

Like a river flowing backwards
Towards the rape
And demise
Of the poor white woman

Like The Birth of a Nation
our topics our issues our third degree burn buttons
things in life that make us ripe with disgust

Ready to pull the trigger
Ready to live in the Negro penitentiaries
Ready to spit on the white judge, with the white prosecution, with the white defendant, with the white jury.
With the white government, with the white neighborhoods, the white institutions.
The white words we speak,
The white steps we take,
The white actions we make

The best story ever written is of a child being born
Living until they can read
And committing suicide

Tis the next great American novel
Overwhelmed and apathetic
Ready to give up

Like ready to accept the face value if marked with a low enough price tag
A pitiful white price tag
The highest of negro price tags

Like In God We Trust
Like the fall of democracy
Like the status Quo
Is maintained through legislations decisions
to protecting your right
to lynch
with bullets
and not get your hands

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